In Silence
by Sara6
Summary: Michael and Liz have a...moment...in the library.


In Silence

**In Silence**

  
Category: Liz/Michael  
Summary: You know how they show us scenes that make us think "Ooh! Sexual tension!" like the journal-returning, the hug, and the So47 flirting? This is like that. A brief, tension-filled Polar moment.  
Notes: Hey look, I have a library fetish! Hm.  
BGM: Underworld's CD "Second Toughest in the Infants."  
Dedication: To Ash, who is such a great beta reader that she might as well be named co-author. 

"Somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience  
Your eyes have their silence;  
In your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,   
On which I cannot touch because they are too near."  
e.e. cummings  


He has beautiful eyes. They're simultaneously bright and dark, and always so intense. I catch him looking at me once in awhile, and it's almost like he's trying to see right through me. No, that's wrong. It's like he's trying to see inside me, trying to force my skin to become transparent, so he can see what makes me tick. It's unsettling. 

I rather enjoy it. 

We were all gathered in the library today, having an impromptu meeting to discuss general alien stuff. There was talking, and I'm pretty sure I nodded a few times. The meeting finally ended and we dispersed; I stayed behind to do some research. I thought I was the only one left. I was wrong. 

For a small town library, we have quite an impressive philosophy section. That's where I found Michael, rummaging through the stacks, obviously looking for something. I turned the corner and nearly ran into him. Mutely, I nodded a silent apology for the intrusion and turned away, ready to flee. Then he grabbed my arm. Not roughly, just enough to get across that he didn't want me going anywhere. 

An eternal pause followed, during which I stared up at him feeling vaguely intimidated and slightly turned on. His hand was warm around my wrist, and I detected a faint scent of some sort of musky cologne or aftershave. I felt his gaze sweeping over me, dark eyes seemingly memorizing every detail of my skin. It felt like a summer wind. I blushed slightly, wondering what had come over me. 

"Liz." It was a statement, like he was reminding me what my name was. His presence was affecting me pretty strongly, and I have to admit that I didn't even recognize the name at first. I smiled a smile that didn't quite make it to my eyes, and I spoke. 

"Michael." I sounded breathless. He was standing too close for comfort. 

"There's this...book." He seemed vaguely unsure of himself. 

I nodded encouragingly, doing my best to ignore the continuing presence of his restraining hand on my arm. "A book," I said intelligently, willing him to proceed. 

"Yeah." That's all he said. I blinked. 

"You're in the right place," I said dryly. "What's it called? I'm sure I can help you find it." When in doubt, go for the direct approach. 

"The Fountainhead." Hm. Interesting. 

"You're an Ayn Rand fan? I wouldn't have guessed." 

Michael shrugged. "There's a lot about me you don't know." 

"That's true," I agreed. His hand remained a burning heat against my skin. I glanced down, almost expecting to see a shining silver handprint. 

Faster than I could protest, he moved his hand away, staring at it like he had never seen it before. Then he looked back to me, seemingly struggling for something to say. "You gonna help me find the book or what?" 

Book? Oh. Yeah. That. "Oh, the fiction section. I'll show you." I led the way, feeling him trailing behind me like a shooting star I could wish on, but never keep. My eyes scanned the shelves, but I could see Michael watching me intently in my peripheral vision. I tried not to focus on that. O, P, Q. Here we go. "Rand, Rand," I murmured, reading the bindings. I was so intent that it took me a few moments to notice how close he was. 

The musky scent I had noticed earlier was filling my head, warm and intense and reminiscent of sandalwood. He couldn't have been more than a few inches from my back; I could feel his proximity in every thud of my rapidly increasing pulse. I felt his breath whisper around my ear, slow and soft, in a marked contrast to the unevenness my own. My nerves were stretched tight with tension. I closed my eyes to get my bearings, and only succeeded in imagining Michael in various states of undress. I was barely resisting the urge to lean into him, to press back and feel and love and damn the consequences. 

I swallowed and snapped back into reality. The book was right in front of me, I had just been too caught up to notice it. I pulled it from the shelf with slightly shaking fingers, feeling him draw back as I did so. My senses cried out with the loss. "Here it is," I stated. 

He was leaning sullenly against the opposite shelf as I turned to face him. I held out the large volume and he accepted it, his fingers brushing against mine just enough to make me crave more. "Thanks, Liz." The way he said my name made me almost shiver. He turned to leave. No. No. Don't do that. That's a bad idea. 

"Michael, wait," I said, tasting the name like honey against my lips. 

He half-turned back toward me. "Yeah?" 

Establish a connection, Liz. Come on. "Uh...let me know. How the book is," I clarified. 

He nodded. "Sure." 

"Great." 

A few more precious seconds of eye contact before he turned away again. I stared after him until I couldn't see him anymore, and then I stared at the place where he had been, as if that would draw him back into my vision. 

With a resolved sigh, I marched back into the stacks, returning moments later and heading to the check out counter. I placed a book on the counter; the librarian eyed it curiously. 

"Popular selection. I just checked one of these out a few minutes ago," she commented. 

"Mm-hmm," I replied non-commitally. She scanned and stamped the book, then bade me goodbye. 

I walked out of the library, "The Fountainhead" in my hand and Michael on my mind. 

The End  
2/9/2001 

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